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A COLLECTION 



POEMS 



B. 



EDGAR FOSTER DAVIS 



1912 

Printea (irivately And sol<l Ly lukioritttion 






COPYRIGHT, 1912 

BY 

E. F. DAVIS 



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CONTENTS 

PAGE 

1 To the River at Mechisses 7 

2 Kind o' Grave 8 

3 Lizy Ann 10 

4 Per Noctem ad Lucem 11 

5 Reincarnate, A.D. 2012 12 

6 Little Bo Peep 13 

7 Josephine Miller 13 

8 My Wants 16 

9 Money Island 17 

10 A Confession 18 

11 Little Boy Blue 19 

12 Esperanto, the Universal Language 20 

13 Song: Day by Day 22 

14 The Dying Dominie 23 

15 "Captain Bouquet" 24 

16 My Little Kid Shoe 26 

17 A Rhymed Address to Spanish-American War Volunteers 27 

18 Colonel Ben and his Compatriots (1775) 30 

19 Then and Now 33 

20 Address to the Shade of Julius Caesar 34 

21 Revelation Revealed, or The Mystic Number 39 

22 Caesar's Funeral 44 

23 The Antichrist Unveiled 45 

24 Epistle to a Modernist 55 

25 Faithful unto Death 60 

26 Memories of Old Mechisses 61 

27 Ode to Old Bowdoin 64 

28 Song: Where is New England? 65 



Page Seven 



To the River at Meckisses 

Mechisses, Mechisses, thy mad river hisses, 

And dashes, and splashes, the same as of old; 

As down through the valley its springs make a sally 

To join the wild waves by the Ocean uprolled. 

It tumbles and rumbles ; it groans and it grumbles ; 
It moans as it stumbles o'er stones in its path; 
O'er boulders and pebbles it doubles its troubles; 
It boils and it bubbles, and roars in its wrath. 

Through forest and meadow, in sunshine and shadow, 
It gleams and it glooms by day and by night; 
Past hillside and mountain, past millside and fountain, 
It glides and it slides, never staying its flight. 

Under green-tufted ridges, past by-ways and bridges, 
And edges of ledges, and glistening sands; 
Through town and through village, through pasture and tillage, 
It winds as it finds its lone way through the lands. 

Till the tide-waters leap, as from Ocean they sweep 
To welcome its ripples and mingle their foam; 
Now merrily married, far downward they're carried. 
Far onward and seaward in joyance to roam. 

I love thee, sweet river, forget will I never 
The scenes where my childhood was spent long ago ; 
Thy waves and thy billows, thy deeps and thy shallows 
More brightly than ever in memory glow. 

Ye glad, dancing waters, where now are the daughters 
And sons of Mechisses with whom I once strayed- 
Fond lads and coy misses, whose tender caresses 
Were so dear and sincere when together we played? 



Page Eight 



Some have wandered afar toward the beckoning star 
Of evening, o'er prairie and stream; 
But yon mountains of gold no such treasures unfold 
As of childhood their beautiful dream! 

All the others have flown to a region unknown, 
From these haunts they are gone, and forever; 
But their faces I see, and they smile upon me, 
When I walk the old paths by the River. 

Kind o' Grave 

Our Sexton was an ancient man 

Of grave and solemn mien; 
With wrinkled skin, and flowing locks — 

The whitest ever seen. 
I well remember how we boys 

Beside him used to walk, 
And ask him foolish questions 

Just to hear him— "kind o' talk!'' 

His boys, he said, had all grow'd up, 

And kind o' gone away; 
His gals, likewise, had "merried" been — 

How long, he couldn't say; 
Two wives of his'n had gone to rest 

Above the golden stair ; 
And oftentimes he'd kind o' wished 

His third was also there! 

His politics remained the same 

As in his early prime: 
He'd voted for "Old Hickory," 

Fust, last, and all the time; 
And when the Civil War broke out 

And filled our land with woe. 
He said, "I kind o' looked for this 

Nigh forty year ago!" 



Page Nine 



Whene'er he spoke of sacred things 

It was with reverence, 
Although to sinless purity- 
He never made pretence. 
"My creed is short," he used to say 

In accents mild and meek: 
"I b'lieve that God is merciful, 
While i am poor and weak. 

"It would '2! been agin my vote 

To live this life at all; 
But God Almighty placed me here. 

And He's responsible. 
So, when I go to Him at last, 

Confessing all my sin, 
He'll find a place to bury that 

And kind o' let me in!" 

One day we missed him on the street 

And on the windy hill — 
For three-score years his chosen beat — 

'Twas said that he was ill. 
A week passed by, and then 'twas told 

In sadness, far and wide. 
How our good sexton, worn and old. 

At last had kind o' died. 

From distant hamlet, hut and hall. 

From mountain, lake, and lea 
Came childhood, youth, and bowing age, 

His face once more to see. 
And then with reverent steps and slow, 

And eyes with weeping dim, 
We gathered round his lot of ground 

And kind o' buried himl 



Page Ten 



Lizy Ann 

My darter? Yes, that's Lizy Ann — 

As full o' grit as any man 

'T you ever see! She does the chores 

Days when I can't git out. o' doors 

'Account o' this 'ere rheumatiz — 

And sees to ev'ry thing there is 

To see to here about the place; 

And never makes a rueful face 

At housework, like some women do, 

But does it all — and cheerful, too! 

There's mother — she's been bedrid now 
This twenty year; and you'll allow 
It takes a grist o' care and waitin' 
To 'tend on herf But I'm a-statin' 
No more'n the facts when this I say: 
There's never been a single day 
That gal has left her mother's side 
Except for meetin', or to ride 
Through muck and mire, through rain or snow. 
To market when I couldn't go. 

She's thirty-five, you say? Yes, more 
Than that — she's mighty nigh two score. 
But what o' that? She's sweet and mild 
To me and mother as a child. 
There doesn't breathe a better than 
Our only darter, 'Lizy Ann ! 

Had offers? Wal, I reckon — though 
She's ne'er told me nor mother so. 
I mind one chap — a likely man, 
That seemed clean gone on 'Lizy Ann; 
And yet she let the critter slide, 
And he's sence found another bride. 

The roses in her cheeks is gone. 
And left 'em sort o' pale and wan; 
Her mates is married, dead, or strayed 
To other places; youth nor maid 
No longer comes to see her. Yet 
You'll hear no murmur of regret. 
"My life's a part of Heaven's own plan," 
She often says. That's Lizy Ann. 



Page Eleven 



Per Noctem Ad Lucem 

*^ At $vening time there shall be light'^^—Zt^. XIV, 7. 

Some day — it may have come — my weary feet will fail me 
Upon the road whereon I've journeyed far. 

And ere the eventide my ambushed foe assail me, 
And order hence his prisoner of war. 

Calmly will I submit, nor question his appearing; 

Him will I feebly follow as I may, 
Watching the shadows of the twilight ever nearing, 

Soothed by familiar sounds along the way: — 

The music of the darkling, restless river rushing 

Beyond the willows in the vale below; 
The tremulous twitter of the sleepy swallows hushing 

Their fledglings where the silvery birches grow; 

The distant lowing of the cattle homeward straying; 

The measured tinkle of their brazen bells; 
The merry shoutings of the Httle children playing 

Upon the village-green, or in the dells; 

And sweeter yet by far, and on my ears more clearly. 

Like some celestial symphony shall fall 
The well-known voices of the friends I love so dearly, 

Subdued and soft, though not funereal; 

And when the golden glory from the sky has faded, 
And the chill mists have up the valley rolled, 

The stage all mortals dread I shall not pass unaided — 
My victor's Victor will my heart uphold. 

Although He will not stand between me and my prison, 

Its portal He will gently open wide; 
And entering I'll shout: ''Behold, the Sun is risen! 

I shine like Him — and I am satisfied." 



Page Twelve 



Reincarnate— A.D. 2012 

Oh, might I return to this wonderful world 

A hundred years from now, 
And find the Flag of the Free unfurled 

From every mountain's brow — 
Proudly waving o'er valley and hill. 

Peacefully floating o'er city and town. 
Waving and floating triumphantly still 

O'er the Fatherland, up and down. 

Treading again this sacred soil 

Bequeathed by our sires of old, 
Redeemed by the sacrifice, blood, and toil 

Of their sons of the self-same mould; 
I should yearn to revisit their graves and lay 

My lilies and roses there. 
And greet every patriot faring that way 

My tribute of love to share. 

What joy to journey from sea to sea. 

And even from Pole to Pole, 
And mingle with multitudes yet to be 

Here in serene control; 
Reclining at ease in aerial ships. 

Or in subterranean cars. 
And to hear men cheer from a billion lips 

For the Flag of The Hundred Stars! 

I should haste to revisit the toiler's home 

And taste of his wholesome fare. 
Rejoiced that the loitering time had come 

For him to receive his share 
Of the wealth of the world — this bountiful world- 

And to smile at the millionaire ! 

But Oh, what rapture of soul to hear 

'Mid that multitudinous throng 
A single line from some poem of mine. 

Or strain of some heart-felt song, 
Still winging its way by night and by day, 

Rebuking injustice and wrong, 
Uplifting the lowly, and making men holy — 

For God and Humanity strong! 



Page Thirteen 



Little Bo Pee^ 



In Grandma's great attic what think you I found 
One morning last summer while mousing around 
Among tipsy old tables and broken-backed chairs, 
And bonnets, and gowns, such as nobody wears; 
And other old duds for which nobody cares — 
'Way down in one corner and facing the stairs — 
But a little toy-bedstead with coverlet neat, 
And mattress, and pillows, and bolster complete? 
In this soft, tiny nest, nearly covered from sight, 
The fairest of fairy-like dolls, day and night. 
Many summers and winters had lain fast asleep. 
Awaiting the call of our Little Bo Peep. 

"Good night, Lena darling," the drowsy child said 
Through her clustering curls as she knelt by the bed 
And kissed the pink lady, "good night, and good-bye; 
ril see you next summer. Till then do not cry, 
But wait for me here. I my promise will keep. 
And will love you forever," sobbed Little Bo Peep. 

"Ah, flaxen-haired dreamer, asleep in your bed, 
Awake not to find you're forsaken," I said. 
Abandoned, forgotten, and left here to weep 
With me o'er the frailty of Little Bo Peep !" 



Josefkme Miller 



^ 



The war-cloud is gath'ring o'er Gettysburg vale. 
Portending hoarse thunder and death-dealing hail, 
The solid earth trembles, and rent is the air. 
With the rushing of squadrons, the loud trumpet's blare, 
The clanking of arms, and the shouting of men, 
And the neighing of steeds from each echoing glen ; 
But unheeding the din and unhindered by dread 
Josephine Miller is baking her bread. 
* See note at end of poem. 



Page Fourteen 



Now the battle is on, and they warn her away, 
For her cottage it stands in the sweep of the fray; 
They say 'twill be shattered by shot and by shell,— 
But she answers by quenching their thirst from the well, 
And breaking her bread for the blue-coated men, 
And heating her oven and baking again, — 
Alone in the house whence the owner has fled 
Josephine Miller is baking her bread. 

She hears on the roof bullets patter like rain — 
Bombs burst in the road and the dooryard. The slain 
By scores and by hundreds on every hand lie, — 
The wounded crawl into the cellar to die. 
With her cup of relief she is here, she is there; 
No cry is unheard, but with tenderness rare, 
Alone, all alone with the dying and dead, 
Josephine watches while baking her bread. 

All through the long night and the long weary day 
She nurses the wounded, the blue and the gray; 
And tears silent fall — for sweet visions of home 
And of faces belov'd to each soldier will come 
When the maiden draws nigh. And the dying rejoice 
In the touch of her hand and the sound of her voice. 
And pray for a blessing to rest on the head 
Of Josephine Miller while baking her bread. 

How wildly soever the tempest may sweep 

In its pitiless wrath o'er the land and the deep, 

There's a centre of calm where the bird may find rest 

Secure from alarm as in sheltering nest; 

So there 'mid the storm of demoniac war, — 

Of passion and hate raging frantic and far, — 

A gleam of old Bethlehem's glory is shed 

Where Josephine Miller is baking her bread. 



Page Fifteen 



*[In his reminiscences of Gettysburg, published several 
years ago, General Henry W. Slocum narrates this interest- 
ing incident: We called at the house which has always been 
an object of interest to all who visit this field. Near the line 
occupied by the brigade under command of Gen. J. B. Carr of Troy, 
N. Y., stands a little one-story house, which at the time of the bat- 
tle was occupied by a Mrs. Rogers and her adopted daughter. On 
the morning of July 2, Gen. Carr stopped at the house and found 
the daughter, a girl about eighteen years of age, alone, busily en- 
gaged in baking bread. He informed her that a great battle was 
inevitable, and advised her to seek a place of safety at once. She 
said she had a batch of bread baking in the oven and she would 
remain until it was baked and then leave. When her bread was 
baked it was given to our soldiers, and devoured so eagerly that 
she concluded to remain and bake another batch. And so she con- 
tinued to the end of the battle, baking and giving her bread to all 
who came. The great artillery duel which shook the earth for 
miles around did not drive her from her oven. Pickett's men who 
had charged past her house found her quietly baking her bread 
and distributing it to the hungry. When the battle was over, her house 
was found to be riddled with shot and shell, and seventeen dead 
bodies were taken from the house and cellar ; the bodies of wounded 
men who had crawled to the little dwelling for shelter. Twenty 
years after the close of the war Gen. Carr's men and others held a 
grand reunion at Gettysburg, and learning that Josephine Rogers 
was still living, but had married and taken up her residence in Ohio 
they sent for her, paid her passage, from her home to Gettysburg 
and back, and had her go to her old home and tell them the story 
which they all knew so well. They decorated her with a score of 
army badges, and sent her back a happy woman. Why should not 
the poet immortalize Josephine Rogers as he did Barbara 
Frietchie?] 



Pdge Sixteen 



My Wants 



"Man wants but little here below 
Nor wants that little long.'»--Z>r. Waits. 

I do not want a palace, 

I do not want a farm, 

But just a humble cottage 

To keep me dry and warm; 

I do not want a family; 

My wife, and children four, 

Are most delightful company — 

Why should I sigh for more? 

I do not want a horse and "rig," — 

I so dislike the care; 

I do not want an "auto," 

And to "fly" I should not dare; 

So I do not want an air-ship, 

Or even a balloon; 

I do not want a "music-box" — 

Unless it be in tune! 

I do not want a rifle — 

I have a shot-gun now — 

Since youth I've grown a trifle 

Nearsighted, lame, and slow. 

I do not want a pulpit, 

I do not want a school; 

Most people think that "Poet" 

Is another name for "fool." 

Of faithful friends I have no lack. 

Heaven sends me more of those 

Till they outnumber, ten to one. 

My most malignant foes. 

I do not want to own a bank, 

But think it might be fine 

To have at hand at my command 

A sort of private mine. 

So I conclude that what I want — 

Why should you think it strange? — 

Is just a fathomless, unfailing 

Pocketful of "Change." 



Page Seventeen 



Money Island 

A mile below my land 

There rises an island 

That greets with a smile and 

A mystic refrain 
My boat as it dances 
Alongside, and glances, 
Then downstream advances 

In sunshine or rain. 

Are Syrens of Story, 
Or Seraphs from Glory, 
Or Berserkers hoary 

Concealed on the shore 
'Mid the rustling rushes 
And clustering bushes 
Whence melody gushes 

And thrills evermore? 

Some say the isle's haunted 
By spirits enchanted 
Of Pirates who planted 

Vast treasures of yore 
In the caves near the summit, 
So deep that no plummet 
Has ever yet come at 

The glittering store. 

The timid youth homing 
From sea in the gloaming 
Beholds its crags looming 

So ghostly and grim, 
And tells, never failing, 
How sorrowful wailing 
And shrieks unavailing 

Have terrified him. 

Tis the music of ripples 
Uprolling the pebbles 
In altos and trebles 

That floats o'er the sheen 
Of the murmuring river, 
Whose flow faileth never. 
But mirrors forever 

The mountain-tops green; 



Page Eighteen 



Tis the tide-waters whirling 
With fresh currents swirling 
And round the rocks curling 

And mingling their foam; 
Thence comes the weird singing 
The lone isle is flinging — 
Which lingers, still clinging 
To her as its home. 

O fair fairy island, 
In lowland or highland, 
In far land or nigh land, 

Wherever I stray; 
What scene so alluring. 
When toiling or touring, 
What joy so enduring 

Illumines my way, 
As, rising mid-river, 
Thy face, frowning never, 
Sheds glory forever 

By nig'ht and by day! 



A Confession 

I fell in love with Mary Ann 

Nigh twenty years ago; 
Since then weVe trod, as wife and man 

The paths of joy and woe. 
But though my head with silver thread 

Is thickly garnished o'er, 
Another maid has won the heart 

I thought Fd lost before. 

Tis not alone her eyes of blue 

All running o'er with glee ; 
Nor yet her cheeks of sea-shell hue. 

That have entangled me. 
I still insist I could resist 

This maid of matchless mien, 
But for her guileless innocence 

That crowns my love a queen. 



Page Nineteen 



I see her in the morning glow, 

And in the sunset beam; 
In all the fairest flowers that blow, 

In each ecstatic dream. 
Whene'er her arm, so plump and warm, 

Around my neck is thrown. 
What happiness to feel that she 

Is mine — ^my very own! 

Alas! I am in love once more. 

My wife — oh, tell her not! 
For having thought me true a score 

Of years, she'd have me shot! 
But I'll go near, and in her ear 

(Lest she should be beguiled) 
Myself will whisper: "My new dear 

Is Madge, our eldest child!" 

Little Boy Blue 

O Little Boy Blue, while you tended the sheep, 
You might lie on the haystack and peacefully sleep; 
But that is all over, and here you are now 
Up-growing scarce knowing a lamb from a cow. 

From the flowery meadows and verdure-clad hills 
They have whisked you away to the millionaires' mills. 
Where all the day long in a stuffy old room 
You clamber and climb 'round the clattering loom. 

Barefooted, ragged, and jaded, and wan, 

With your ten little toes, like a bird, clinging on — 

And all for a pittance, to purchase a crust 

At the neighborhood Stall of the Bakery-Trust! 

Ah, Little Boy Blue, there are thousands of you 
All over this country so free for the few 
Compared to the multitudes under the sway 
Of Syndicate Bondage by night and by day; 

Thousands on thousands (poor lambs!), at the looms, 
Or toiling for bread in foul rookery rooms. 
Half naked, half famished, and cheated from birth 
Of all that is prized by the children of earth : 
Their CHILDHOOD, the WILDWOOD. FREE 

SUNSHINE and AIR; 
FREE SCHOOLING; whose loss they can never repair! 



Page Twenty 



(Somewhat Satirical) 
Esperanto y Tke Universal Language 

Farewell, my noble mother-tongue, 

Farewell such scraps of Spanish, 
As I corralled when I was young 

Not dreaming they must vanish 
Erelong with German, French and eke 

The Portuguese (which may go). 
Farewell to Russian, Modern Greek, 

The Yiddish, and the Dago! 
We need no more to read their lore, 

Or speak a foreign lingo; 
A new-made, combination-tongue 

We now may use, by Jingo ! 

An Ocean liner at New York 

We board in early summer; 
And on the way, by night and day, 

We talk with every bummer; 
No matter whence the men may come — 

Leeds, London or Lepanto — 
We swap our lies and shake our dice, 

In limpid Esperanto. 

Or p'r'aps we seek the Grand Saloon 

And chat with all the ladies; 
Some hail from Cooper and Cologne, 

while some belong in Cadiz. 
But all agree that life at sea 

Is just a grand couranto; 
And prattling there, they flirt, the fair, 

In sparkling Esperanto. 



Page Twenty-One 



The ocean passed, we land at last, 

At Liverpool or Havre; 
We are not vexed, or ev'n perplexed 

By all the loud palaver 
One hears upon a foreign shore, 

Reminding him of Babel; 
But drive pell-mell to our hotel 

As soon as we are able. 

Arriving there we pay our fare 

Without a fight with "c^bby;" 
The "porter" shows his scarlet nose — 

His cheeks are fat and flabby. 
We bathe, we dine, we smoke; in fine. 

Do everything we want to, — 
Which could not be unless you see, 

We all talked Esperanto. 

Thus, 'round the world we might be hurled 
From New Year's to December, 

On road, and rail, by steam and sail — 
But what I say remember: 

You must side-step each foreign tongue — 
(And if you try you can, too,) 

And tackle strangers old and young. 
In flowing Esperanto. 

They will respond right off the reel. 

The Russian, Turk, or Frenchman; 
And giving you a rattling spiel, 

Become your faithful henchman. 
For you must know that high and low 

'Tween Boston and Otranto, 
From Peary's Pole to Holmes' Hole 

Are versed in Esperanto. 



Page Twenty-Two 



Song — Day By Day 

Oh, why should you struggle to carry to-day 
The load that belongs to to-morrow? 

Or why from the depths of the future essay 
Its griefs or its trials to borrow? 

You've nothing to do with to-morrow, my dear, 
But with only the day that is shining; 

To fill up its minutes with duty and cheer, 
And to silence all useless repining. 

For never to mortal did heaven yet give. 

Along with to-day, a to-morrow; 
Or a life-time, longer or shorter, to live 

With its days full of gladness and sorrow. 

We have no to-morrows, but days, my dear. 
And they come not in troops or in masses; 

But one after other they find us here — 
Like a friend who salutes and passes. 

For one little day your battle, I know, 
You can fight, and fighting, can win it ; 

And by trustfully bearing your burden of woe 
Find, surely, a blessedness in it. 

Then be still, troubled heart, 'tis yours and mine 
To live just the day that is shining; 

Each moment to mark with some service divine, 
And to silence our useless repining. 



Page Twenty-Three 



Tke Dying Dominie 



In a narrow street secluded of a little Scottish town 
Dwelt a preacher of the Gospel in a cottage old and brown; 

Long this faithful under-shepherd had his flock with manna fed; 
Long the tender lambs protected and in fertile pastures led; 

And, like all his race before him, dealt severe and telling blows 
Not on Satan's kingdom only, but on all sectarian foes. 

But to-night his work is ended, and the dominie at last 
Lies upon his dying pillow, feels his life-tide ebbing fast ; 

While beside his couch a grandchild seeks with loving hand to 

soothe 
All the old man's dying anguish, all the darkening path to smooth. 

Suddenly upon the maiden turns the hoary saint his eyes 

From whose depths a light mysterious gleams like star from Polar 

skies : 

"Daughter, I hae warred a warfare lang, and tireless, and severe. 
In my preaching, and my praying, 'gainst a' ither churches here; 

"A' my day I've stoutly striven for the doctrines auld and sweet; 
Fierce anathemas I've utered 'gainst the folk out owre the street; 

"But the street I now am treading, daughter, has nae sides ava, 
Far beyond my een it reaches, bounded by nor curb nor wa' ! 

"Oh, could I my life live over, here upon this barren shore, 
I'd preach purity o' Doctrine less, and purity o' Life far more." 

Smiled the other as she softly took in hers the clay-cold hand, 
"Are you heretical becoming as you near the heavenly land?" 

"Little matters it," he whispered ; "Names hae not the olden sound 
O' severity and terror that I've aften in them found; 



Page Twenty-Four 



"And since I hae lain here lanely, day by day upon my cot, 
Aft ae still, sma' voice has spoken things wi' holy sweetness 
fraught — 

"Telling me that a' our wranglings over doctrines, here below, 
Will for aye be silenced in that Kingdom whereunto I go; 

"And as Love makes a' men brithers — when I enter in at last, 
I shall find the place far roomier than I thought in times by-past !" 



Weaker grew his voice, and fainter fell the falt'ring words and 

slow; 
Sank the weary head forever, closed the eyes to all below ; 

And as tearfully the maiden watched the light go out at last. 
Bending low she heard him murmur: "Than — I thought — ^in times 
—by-past !" 



**Cat)tain Bouquet" 

What, never heard tell of our "Captain Bouquet," 

Our first volunteer in that long-ago Fray 

That set the whole nation in hostile array? 

Why, it seems to me now scarcely more than a day- 

Or a month at the longest — since Smith went away 

At the head of his company, looking so gay 

In his epaulets, feathers, and uniform gray ! 

The Mechisses militia! Ah me, what a joy 

To witness their "training*' when I was a boy; 

To strut in their rear with a lath-edging gun. 

Or escort the brass-band— For us urchins what fun! 



Page Twenty-Five 



One "Fourth" I remember, "The Soldiers" turned out 
And paraded the streets of the village about 
'Mid the thunder of cannon, and welcoming shout 
From youths very slender and lumbermen stout, 
Till tired and hot from their long, dusty march 
They halted toward noon in the shade of an arch 
Built to face the old "Gun-house" on Liberty Green, 
Where they stood at "parade-rest," pleased to be seen. 

As the Captain was clearing his throat for a speech 

To his gallant command, and to all within reach 

Of his trumpet-toned voice, there drew up at his side, — 

Like a garden of roses and pinks on a ride, — 

A bevy of muslin-gowned maidens, the pride 

Of the village at large, it could not be denied. 

Approaching the stalwart and grizzled commander 
The belle of the town, with a smile, stepped to hand her 
Bouquet to his Highness — who waved her aside 
With his glittering sword, as he angrily cried : 
"Away with you, simpletons — this is no place 
For ribbons and bibbons and nasty bouquets! 
Attention-n-n — ! Battalion-n-n-n ; Right about face!" 

Thus 'tis plain how it happened from that very day 
All Mechisses knew Smith as "Old Captain Bouquet" — 
Until home from Cold Harbor his body was brought 
And tenderly laid in his family lot 
Where the bobolinks sing amid sunshine and showers ; 
And mourners come laden with beautiful flowers. 



Page Twenty-Six 



My Little Kid Skoe 

Out at the toe and down at the heel, 

Battered, and buttonless, torn, and worn; 
No storm-shaken wreck, without rudder or keel, 

That ever was stranded looked more forlorn — 
All that is left of a dainty, white pair 

That first protected her chubby, pink feet; 
Dear relic, youVe followed me everywhere. 

From city to city, from street to street! 

Souvenirs many of happier days, 

Simple mementos of youth and prime. 
Bring back the innocent, infantile ways — 

Sunshine and showers from Babyhood-clime; 
But nothing of all that I treasure with care 

Speaks to my heart in a tone so true. 
Sweet and endearing and sacredly rare 

As my long-lost baby-girFs poor little shoe: 

It tells of a distant and mist-wreathed land. 

Of a life that is now but a vanished dream; 
Of a trustful heart and a clinging hand. 

Of filial affection's springtide stream ; 
Of peaceful slumbers in cradle and bed; 

Of kisses fresh as the early dew; 
Such memories throng like ghosts of the dead. 

At the sight of my darling's little kid shoe. 

O brave little feet, you have wandered far 

Out in the world since your toddling-time. 
Bearing your burdens of labor and care. 

Spurning the weariness, dust, and grime. 
Though you never turned back and with eager pace 

Sought for your babyhood's worshippers true. 
Still, thoughts of the dead days' tender grace 

Come to my heart in your little kid shoe. 



Page Twenty-Seven 



Rkymed Address to Tke Nortkern New Ham|>sliire 

Volunteers on tke Eve of Tkeir Det)arture to tke 

Seat of tke St)anisk-Ameriean W^ar 

Read at Littleton Opera House, September, 1898 

Ready to go for a soldier, 

Ready, when morning shall come. 
To fall into line, and obeying the sign, 

To march at the beat of the drum; 
Ready to shoulder the rifle; 

Ready to put on the blue, 
And to battle with might for the cause of the Right, 

To Flag and to Fatherland true. 

Adown from the old Granite Mountains, 

Along by the surf-beaten strand. 
Through each flowery vale on the sweet summer gale 

Is wafted the word of command: 
And it's "ready, men, ready for action; 

Ready to do and to dare; 
Men of the northland, men of the southland, 

Duty is calling — Prepare!" 

You've heard it, O men of the mountains; 
You heed it, and answer the call; 

You're ready to go and encounter the foe. 
And to sacrifice comfort and all; 

To follow "Old Glory" to battle- 
To fight till our banner shall wave 

Over Islands redeemed, over Peoples that dreamed 
Of naught but the fate of the slave. 

Our foemen are proud and insulting. 

But we've shown them of what we are made : 
For one morning last May, at the breaking of day, 

Our fleet was for conflict arrayed; 
With a Green-Mountain man on the bridge, 

And with Granite State boys at the guns, 
"We remembered the Maine," and the "Flower of Spain," 

Just faded and shrivelled at once! 



Page Twenty-Eight 



You will sail to the "Pearl of Antilles;" 

Perhaps Porto Rico you'll see; 
Or varying scenes in the far Philippines 

The fortunes of war may decree. 
But the sight of yon tropical mountains 

When first from the Ocean they rise, 
Will remind you of home, and a something will come 

Like a mist, and bedarken your eyes. 

You will toil amid Tophet-like valleys ; 

You'll clamber with blistering feet 
Over steep, rugged hills, and will wade reddened rills 

Where the onset of foemen you'll meet. 
And deep down in the rough, tangled thicket 

Perchance you may fall in the fray, 
And there in the shade by the palmetto made 

Your spirit take wings and away. 

You will think of our cold northern mountains; 

The valleys, the glens, and the streams; 
These orchards and farms lying safe from alarms — 

You will visit them oft in your dreams; 
The home of your childhood will haunt you; 

Bright visions of youth will arise. 
Which by day and by night with their beckoning light 

Will lead you to noble emprise. 

You go not alone to your exile, 

You will march not alone to the fray; 
In the thick of the fight, in the vigil by night 

Will walk phantoms beside you alway; 
There are shadowy hands will defend you; 

Fond faces will smile as of yore; 
And all hearts that can pray as they're praying to-day, 

Will love you as never before. 

You go not alone to your exile ; 

You'll bear not your burden alone; 
Your patriot Sires have kindled the fires 

That burn in your breasts as their own. 
The bosoms whereon you were nourished, 

The hands that have toiled for you long — 
Father and mother; wife, sister, and brother — 

Around you will loyally throng. 



Page Twenty-Nine 



But "though father and mother forsake me" 

The Psalmist of Israel cried, 
"There's a father above who will guard me in love 

Whatever on earth may betide." 
Then make Him the Friend of your exile, 

Your Leader, Defender, and King; 
To the strong in the Lord He hath given His word 

That Himself will deHverance bring! 

Are you ready, then, men of the mountains, 

Ready when morning shall come, 
In Humanity's cause, in defense of its laws, 

To march at the beat of the drum? 
To march in the tread of the glorified dead — 

Crusader, and Knight, and Squire — 
Of the numberless host whose names may be lost 

But whose deeds are emblazoned in fire? 

Ready to follow where Washington led, 

And Sullivan, Stark, and Lee? 
And Sherman, and Grant, who labored to plant 

And to nurture fair Liberty's Tree? 
Ready to join with the blue-coated braves 

Of Sampson, and Dewey, and Schley, 
Or to follow hard after our Merritt and Shafter — 

Who'll conquer the Spaniard or die? 

"Ready, ay, ready" you answer, 

"Ready, whatever may come, 
To fall into line, and obeying the sign, 
To march at the sound of the drum ; 
Ready to put on the uniform blue. 

Ready to shoulder the gun. 
And to battle with might for Justice and Right. 

Till the glorious vict'ry is won — 
To follow our Flag, till over each crag 

And mountain of ''Cuba Free," 
"Old Glory" shall wave and no Tyrant or Slave 
Shall be left on our side of the sea!" 



Page 7'hirty 

Colonel Ben, and His Comt)atriots 

( June 12, 1775 ) 

Sam Adams, John Hancock, "Put," Allen, and Warren, — 
Each 'beams as a bright and particular star in 
Our national sky, and we honor each name 
And blazon it high in the Temple of Fame; 
But what of Ben Foster, the bold pioneer, 
Who fought at Machias the very same year. 
In the very same week, when from Bunker Hill's brow 
The Britons were swept to the waters below — 
What of brave Colonel Ben, who had fought the King's foe 
At the Louisburg siege, at Lake George, and Fort "Ti," 
And had come to Machias his fortune to try? — 

Where the lumbermen made him Commander-in-chief 
Of the local militia; for 'twas their belief 
That the war-cloud now rising would darken the sky, 
And everyone said, "should its thimders roll nigh 
Colonel Ben is the leader on whom to rely!" 

'Twas the second of June of that mem'rable year. 
When two schooners dropped anchor not far from the mouth 
Of the River Mechisses, while half a league south 
Rode the black Margaretta, the royal corvette, 
Sent by Admiral Graves, over which he had set 
Captain Moore in command to convoy the fleet 
Of lumber-craft down to Machias, and meet 
Any sudden attempt that "the Rebels" might spring 
On the vessels and lumber to place an embargo; 
For the army in Boston much needed the cargo 
For the building of barracks and that sort of thing. 

Now Ichabod Jones was a merchant well known 
To the men of Machias to whom he had shown 
Signal friendship and favors, they could not but own. 
But on this occasion the word went about 
That the old trader-Captain was in a great pout; 
For, exchanging his stores of molasses and meal — 
And of some other goods — for their hemlock and "deal," 



Page Thirty- One 



It was found that he favored the loyalist few 

While he ^'crowded" the "rebels" — all those whom he knew 

To have tossed up their hats when the tidings came through 

From Concord and Lexington, six weeks before, 

Which aroused all the settlers from mountain to shore, 

To renounce their allegiance forthwith to the Crown, 

And be ready the gauntlet of war to throw down. 

It would make a long story 

To tell how the Tory , 

Waxed angry and insolent day after day; 

Till at length Colonel Ben 

Called together his men, 
Not to learn if the wind blew, but rather which way. 

From the lakes on the North clear to Moose-a-bec Isle, 
Through the fresh-greening forests and round the bold shore, 
Speed the brawny young yeomanry, mile after mile, 
While the neighboring settlements turn out a score; 
Down come the O'Brien brothers, no less than four; 
Two Browns, and two Libbeys, two Fosters, or more; 
Sam Watts, and Sam Whitney, Ed Stevens, John Steele; 
John Barry, John Weston, John Wheaton, McNeil; 
Joe Getchell, Joe Clifford, Jim Coolbroth, John Hall, 
Armed with muskets, scythes, axes — ^yet these are not all ; 
Taft, Hoit, Rice, and Merritt; John Weston, James Cole; 
And Dick Earle whose black skin thinly veils a white soul. 

Tis a bright Sunday morning — the sky is serene; 
The broad Bay lies basking afar in its sheen ; 
Like a pavement of silver the River expands. 
Gently laving its ledges and glistening sands ; 
Its margin a mirror where farmstead and town 
Repose in the shade of the forest's dark crown. 
The unladed ships at their cables swing wide 
At the tug of the inflowing, eddying tide, — 
Their tapering spars overtopping the ranks 
Of the towering pines on the steep river-banks. 

Parson Lyon looks down from his pulpit's high perch 
On the largest assemblage he's seen in his church 
Since he came to his charge ; yet he misses a few 
Of his staunchest supporters, though doubtless he knew 



Page Thiriy-Two 



The cause of their absence. Still every rough pew 

Is filled with the officers, gunners, and crew 

From the ships in the offing, now moored in full view. 

Deep down in the valley, not far from the village 
Another assembly — men stalwart and grim: 
The hard-handed toilers from saw-mill and tillage 
Are grouped near a streani where the tide-waters brim. 
All the morning is spent in a fruitless debate, — 
Some, urging the seizure of vessels and men; 
While others take counsel of prudence, and state 
With calmness, their reasons, again and again. 
For deeming it madness, half-armed, to attack 
A War-vessel's crew with a King at their back. 

At last, tired of hearing their aguments, look ! 
Like a boy the old Colonel leaps over the brook; 
And, drawing his sword, waves it over his head, 
While he shouts in a voice that might waken the dead: 
"Ye men of Machias, who long to be free 
From the yoke of the Tyrant, cross over to me! 
My vote is to capture yon vessels and crew, 

Or mingle our blood 

With the neighboring flood. 
To the cause of our country and Liberty true !" 

His motion is carried, nem, con,, with a cheer 
That rolls o'er the Ocean and rings in the ear 
Of the Royal Oppressor, proclaiming the birth 
Of Freedom-for-all-the-enslaved of the earth. 

The rest is plain History — read where you may 
How the Colonel, commanding his troop the next day, 
Pursued the corvette in her flight down the Bay: 

How they valiantly fought 

Till the convoy was brought 
In triumph up river — ^the first naval Prize 
Ever greeted the sight of American eyes. 

All honor ascribe to the brave Colonel Ben, 
Bluff Jerry O'Brien, and the resolute men 
Who won our first battle of all on the seas, 
And who flung our Great Navy's first flag to the breeze ! 



■it 



'^ 



rm. 



Page Thirty-Three 



Tkcn and Now 

Qh, had I but lived in Colonial times, 

In the days of the bold pioneer, 
When they talked about something save dollars and dimes 

And their cabins were filled with good cheer; 
When land was abundant, and fertile the soil, 

And ev'ry man grew his own grain, 
And raised his own pork, never minding the work, 

Though it taxed both the brawn and the brain. 

Oh, had I but landed that day* on the shore 

Of Mechisses, our beautiful stream. 
With the Libbeys and Scotts, those brave Argonauts, 

Of Scarborough farmers the cream; 
I'd have wielded my axe, and, with vigorous whacks, 

Felled timber enough in one day 
On the banks of Mechisses to build for the Mrs. 

Aiid children a bungalow gay. 
What a life we had lived ! What a picnic, for fair. 

With fuel so plenty and cheap; 
With the woods full of game; and the salmon so tame 

To our table had come with a leap. 
What peace and contentment our forefathers found 

Ere their settlement grew to a town 
With its tortu ous roads and ramshackle abodes, 

Or its forests been burned and cut down ; 

'Ere the wand of Destruction waved over the vale 

Of Mechisses and "queered" her domain 
By damming her floods, doubly-damning her woods, 

Until only charred ruins remain ; 
Ere the thundering trains of pulp-laden wains 

Rendered life in her valley a bore; 
And the swift-whizzing wheels of the Automobiles 

Made it death to step out of one's door! 

*May 20, 1763. 



Page Thirty-Four 



AdJress to Tke Ska Je of Julius Caesar 

For two and forty moons thou heldest sway, 
Great Caesar, over all this peopled planet. 

A score of centuries have rolled away 

Leaving behind no master-mind to man it; 

Great Tsars and Kaisers have usurped thy name 

From age to age, but not eclipsed thy fame. 

To quell all foes, to give the nations rest 

From war and tumult, and reform the State; 

To spread the light of knowledge east and west 
O'er all the earth to Freedom consecrate 

All this to achieve in one administration, 

Commands mankind's undying admiration. 

O mightiest Julius, hadst thou reigned alone 

As Prince and Primate of thy subject world 

A little longer ! Yea, had not thy throne 

Of Power and Wisdom from its base been hurled 

To glut Satanic Envy, who shall say 

Millennial Glory had not come to stay? 

A little longer — ^how thy lofty scorn 

Had blasted every lying superstition, 
And saved the generations yet unborn 

From priestly fraud and pious imposition; 
Thy throne a beacon-light whose rays intense 
Had shed o'er all the earth intelligence! 

Grim-visaged Mars had washed his gory hands 
And Janus' Temple fall'n in shapeless heaps; 

While harvests burdened all the blood-soaked lands, 
The smiling valleys and the mountain steeps; 

A Golden Age of Peace and blest Content 

Had been till now thy noblest monument. 



Page Thirty-Five 



Soldier and Statesman, Orator, and Sage, 
Historian, Scientist, and Rhetorician; 

First of Reformers; idol of thine Age; 
'Protector of plebeian and patrician ; 

Hadst thou but lived, fair Freedom, long delayed, 

Had of thy realms her lasting empire made. 

I love to think that thou by whom the Rhine 

And e'en the wild, tempestuous Strait of Dover 

Were safely crossed hadst braved the outer brine 
And to our Western continent sailed over, 

And reared thine "Eagles" on these shores forlorn 

From Peary's icefields down to Capricorn. 

Magellan-like I see thee boldly steering 

O'er sunset seas, bright Hesperus before; 

With purpose calm, and patience, nothing fearing, 
A strange world circling, adding shore to shore — 

The Philippines, Cipango, old Cathay 

And India yielding to thy sovereign sway. 

I see thee wearing on thy lordly hrow 

The tardy laurels by Columbus won; 

And lands misruled by petty princes now — 
The fairest provinces beneath the sun — 

As jewels set amid the seas cerulean — 

Lands, seas, the whirling World, One Empire JULIAN ! 

I love to think how thou didst call to Rome 
Sosigines, and substance gastronomical 

Didst furnish him; and from his Orient home 
Didst order up his trappings astronomical 

To help thee rectify the Almanac, 

By making shift to shift the Zodiac. 



Page Thirty-Six 



Hadst thou but reigned one half as many years 
As there were moons in thine administration, 

Some Newton from the "Music of the Spheres" 

Had caught the wondrous theme of "Gravitation;" 

And some LaPlace had supplemented this 

With his bold "Nebular Hypothesis." 

Some Franklin had for thee the Lightning tamed ; 

Some Morse spelled "Salve Caesar!" on the "Ticker;", 
Some Edison, or Tesla had proclaimed 

Their wizard-wonders ever coming thicker; 
And why might not Italia the sunny 
Have given to thee that thaumaturg, Marconi? 

And Steam, too, had been harnessed. What a thought- 
Great Caesar travelling in a Pullman car. 

Or on an "Ocean Greyhound" built by Watt 
Or Stevenson, and steaming fast and far 

From Ganges to the Icebergs-King, High Priest 

And Patron of all peoples. West and East ! 

But that thou would'st have scorned the floes titanic, 
And driven thy fragile bark at topmost speed 

Through darkness, risking wreck, and death, and panic, 
To gratify men's purposes of greed, 

Pretending thy conveyance was unsinkable— 

Of Caesar such a thing is hardly thinkable ! 

If thou hadst not thyself invented Printing- 
It seems so simple, now the thing is done- 
Some Giitenberg, employed, perhaps, in minting 
Samt Gaudens "Eagles," had the honor won ; 
And then some Genius, scorning M-S-S-work 
Had glorified thine Age with Rotary Press-work! 

What master-minds had managed all the "Dailies;" 

What gifted poets sung for Magazines; 
What Maros, Miltons, Shakespeares, Scotts, and Shelleys, 

Had piped thy praises in the Philippines, 
No less than in New Zealand and Chicago, 
Rome, Washington, The Hebrides, and Fargo! 



Page Thirty-Seven 



VvcL not contending that the world at once 

Had been enlightened, cleansed and purified ; 

Or that all modern scientific "stunts'* 

Had been of thy full years the crown and pride; 

But WAR thou hadst forever made an end of, 

And given to all mankind a mighty send-off! 

WeVe men to-day as old as "Fulton's Folly" — 
Albeit in the sere and yellow leaf — 

And multitudes that antedate the "Trolley," 
The telegraph, and telephone — in brief 

Methinks it would be difficult to mention 

A scientific, century-old invention. 

A Phoenix-world new-risen from its ashes 
Resplendent in its plumage now appears, 

Whereof in olden times men caught but flashes, 
Enchained, benumbed by superstitious fears — 

A wonder-working world — no older than 

Our oldest, boldest, free American. 

Triumphs like ours thou mightst have celebrated — 
A fitting close to thine auspicious reign; 

And then to thine Octavian delegated 

The vast machine with neither jolt nor strain. 

Alas, thy secret foes "turned down their thumbs," 

Whereby our world lost two millenniums ! 

If thou shouldst rise from out thy realm sulphureous 
No doubt thy ghost our spirits would appal ; 

But when we heard thy queries, quaint and curious, 
Concerning Rome and Boston, Greece and Gaul, 

We'd furnish thee much thrilling information 

And thus relieve the awkward situation. 

We'd tell thee of Great Constantine's Conversion — 
Of powerful Pontiffs on the Caesars' throne — 

The story of thine Empire's sad subversion — 
The darkest night Humanity has known; 

Of the refusal of the world to burn 

When the Millennial Year* began to turn; 
*iooo A.D. 



Page Thirty^Eight 



We'd trace the blazing track of Rome's invaders — 

The wild, barbaric, hyperborean horde 
Less cruel than the hypnotized Crusaders 

Who ravaged Moslem lands with fire and sword. 
Consigning unto death and rayless doom 
The Infidels who scorned an empty tomb; 

Of long and savage wars thou'dst hear the story, — 

Of battles fierce in every generation; 
Of murders foul and persecutions gory, 

To keep the Holy Faith in veneration — 
That so 'mid streaming seas of blood and tears 
The "Prince of Peace" might reign two thousand years ! 

The world is growing weary, Caesar, weary 

With waiting for that "Peace" so oft foretold; 
The world is growing sick of all the dreary, 

Vain promises of treasures manifold, 
And wary now at last of being tricked 
By pious Fakirs, buncoed and gold-bricked. 

Earth groans for a Millennium of Glory — 

A Golden Age, from War and Famine Free; 

When priestcraft with its superstitions hoary 
Ten thousand fathoms deep shall buried be; 

When Knowledge shall be spread from pole to pole, 

And perfect Law maintain supreme control. 

When all the zigzag bounds between dominions. 

And heaven-derived (?) prerogatives of power; 

When all the clashing doctrines and opinions 
Of deities that never lived an hour 

From thoughts of men for evermore are banished 

To where the ghosts of ancient days have vanished; 



Page Thirty-Nine 



When Commerce shall unfurl her silken sails 
On every ocean free and unrestrained; 

And Agriculture fling her golden flails 

O'er Midas-treasures in the soil contained; 

And, void of envy, shall each toiler share 

In Nature's bounties, as in light and air; 

When there shall stand, broad-based, a social order, 
Of, by, and for our human brotherhood; 

And everywhere, to earth's remotest border 

Shall all and each subserve the common good : 

And so bring back the Primal Paradise, 

Nor longer mortgage earth to gain the skies! 



Revelation Revealed, or Tke Mystic Number 

Ye Reverend and Right Reverend commentators, 
Divines and Doctors versed in Holy Writ, 

Ye learned linguists all, and tried translators, 

Come down, I pray, and with your servant sit. 

While he unfolds before your wondering eyes 

The dark Enigma of the centuries. 

You and your school, the elders of the Church, 
Have told us laymen, in a thousand places, 

A certain scripture baffles all research. 
Refusing to reveal unto your Graces 

Its true significance; the verse I mean 

Is in the Apocalypse, Thirteen, eighteen. 

Think you the writer of the Revelation 

Designed to make his meaning so obscure 

That only saints of keenest penetration 

Might of the Numbered Tyrant's name be sure? 

What Roman child or slave could fail to fix 

On Claudius in "Six Hundred Sixty-six?"* 

*DCLXVI = CLaVDIV [S] 



Page Forty 



Lo, what ingenious t wis tings of the Greek 

And Hebrew letters in all Christian ages ! 

What varied speculations vain and weak, 
Encumber many dull patristic pages 

To torture from this verse the name of Nero, 

Mohammed, Bonaparte, or some late hero ! 

Here is the Master-key for which you've sought. 
But sought in vain, in every generation! 

The lost is found; and using it there's naught 
Obscures the page of Sacred Revelation; 

Apply the Claudian Key, and Bible history 

Discloses all its stores of storied mystery: 

Was it not Claudius by imperial order 

Enforced the worship of the Deified 
Dictator Julius in every border 

Of his vast realm, in arrogance and pride? 
And slaughtered every saint that would not bow 
To Caesar's image, and Christ disavow? 

Declared he not a boycott 'gainst the Jews 

And Christian saints except they wore the brand 

Of Julius' hated name, or dared refuse 

To show it on the forehead or the hand? 

What would those livid scars suggest to you. 

Unless it were the number, Forty-two f^ 

For eighteen hundred years and even longer 

The world has been demanding "Who was He— 

The ANTICHRIST— whose empire once was stronger 
Than all the powers of earth could ever be ? 

Who was this mighty, dread antagonist, 

Belligerent, blaspheming Antichrist?" 

*IVLIV(S) - VVLII = XLII. 



Page Forty 'One 



The ancient Fathers said 'twas Nero, who 

Ere long was coming back to vex the Church; 

As neither Christ nor Nero came to view 

But since their death have left us in the lurch, 

Succeeding scholars, with as small success. 

Have favored us with many a sapient guess : — 

Mohammed some declared the Prophet meant; 

While others were as sure 'twas Papal Rome; 
And there be many now who rest content 

To say, The Antichrist is yet to come 

Perhaps some Herod, Nero, or Voltaire, 
Napoleon Bonaparte, or Robespierre. 

Ye Christian savants, might ye not have known 
That DIVUS JULIUS was that personage. 

Whose hateful deeds, albeit dimly shown. 

Are scattered broadcast o'er the Sacred page 

The WICKED ONE,' predicted by Isaiah, 

And doomed to be o'erthrown by the Messiah? 

You might have solved the mystery but for this : 
You based your reasoning on a false assumption- 

A monkish legend — which record* amiss 

The true beginning of the world's Redemption: 

To wit, that Christ was born in Herod's reign, 

Though Daniel tells you plainly He was slain 

Well nigh a century ere the Christian Era 

In Eighty-seven, a Year of Jubilee 

And that in Thirty-seven He would appear a 
Second time, to set The Faithful free 

From Roman bondage : After that would come 

The Thousand Years of Peace — Millennium. 

Thus Daniel prophesied, and Esdras, too, 
And Enoch, (of the seventh generation 

From Adam), and what they wrote must he true, 
Requiring no minute investigation. 

I would not say how much the priesthood added, 

Or that those solemn prohecies were 'padded!' 



Page Forty 'Two 



Who now so wise as to declare when first 
The Messianic Hope began to sway 

The Jewish race in misery immersed 

Men lost in darkness, groping for the day? 

Perchance 'twas when the ruthless Pompey trod 

The precincts sacred to their fathers' God; 

Or when the new ANTIOCHUS appeared — 
Pharsalia's victor proud and Sovereign Pope 

Of Pagandom, and in their Temple reared 
His golden statue — where was any hope 

Henceforth for God's elect save in that Arm 

So oft outstretched to shield their race from harm? 

"He warred against the saints," this "Man of Sin," 

"Blaspheming God and all the heavenly powers;" 
He crucified their priests who served within 
The Holy City's battlements and towers. 
The Desolater's deeds of vengeful ire 
The Prophet saw — ^^his body burned with fire!* 
*Dan. VH. ii. See next poem. 

And saw them, too, the sainted exile, John, 

In retrospective vision on the eve 
Of Judah's final tribulation, 

When not one stone their conquerors did leave 
Upon another of their Holy Place, 
Nor spared the vanquished. Gentile-hating race; 

He saw the Man-child born ere Caesar's reign 

Messiah, destined to o'errule the earth; 

He saw the Fallen Angels strive amain 
To crush this being of celestial birth; 

The Christ of Revelation had descended 

Full two score years before that reign was ended. 



Page Forty-Three 



He saw sev'n branches of the Living Vine 

Sapless, and sere, and withered, one and all — 

Churches that once had nourished with the wine 
Of Gospel grace both saint and prodigal. 

Shall we believe a single generation 

Witnessed their fruitage and disintegration? 

Or rather that when all the expectant saints 
Once felt the haughty Tyrant's heavy hand 

In bloody persecution, their complaints 

United rose unto their Heaven-born and 

Anointed King, with prayers that he would come 

In power, and usher in Millennium? 

What were the churches of the Gospel Age, 
Whether by Peter planted or by Paul — 

But secret refuges against the rage 

And hate of pagan priests and bigots all? 

Their members Socialists whose daily prayer 

Was "Give thy saints the earth — no pagans spare!" 

Assembled, founded, organized, ah, when? 

No record lives in which we may confide. 
We only know the work was that of men 

Who fasted, prayed, and suffered, toiled, and died 
Long, long before Messiah's Incarnation 
According to New Testament narration. 

'Ere yet the Book of Prophecy is sealed — 

Now forward hastening to the "End" at hand — 

The mutilated Head whose wounds are healed — 
The Divus Julius — at Messiah's command 

Ascends from Hades and stands forth revealed 
In all his sanguinary pomp of power 
To reign as Antichrist a single hour. 

Behold at last the Ten-horned, vanquished Beast, 
With Claudius, the "False Prophet," seized and hurled 
Adown the black Abyss, — while all the rest 
Of the idolaters throughout the world 
Are slaughtered by the falchion of the Lord, 
And by the vultures ravenous devoured! 



Page Forty-Four 



Caesar s Funeral 

The Ides of March, 44 B. C. 

The Prophecy of Daniel, Chapter VII., verse 11, "I beheld even 
till the Beast (Caesar) was slain, and his body destroyed, and he 
was given to be burned with fire." 

Scholar and soldier and statesman. 

Orator, poet and sage; 
Pontiff, Triumvir, dictator. 

Reformer and Light of his age ! 
Peerless in form and in feature, 

Apollo in beauty and grace, 
Raised on the funeral-pyre. 

And burned in the market-place. 

Thousands on thousands surround him, 

Men who once quailed at his nod, 
Who e'en with divinity crowned him. 

And worshipped him here as their god; 
Women who loved and adored him, 

Their Elysium found in that face 
Now cruelly gashed and so gory 

And burned in the market-place. 

Veteran men of his legions, 

Youths from each recent campaign, 
Despoilers of Gaul and of Britain, 

Of Afric and Pontus and Spain; 
They that have followed his eagles 

To triumphs thru perilous ways, 
All weep and bewail their lost leader 

Now burned in the market-place. 



Page Forty-Five 



The priests he once rabbled behold him, 

Whose temples he erstwhile profaned, 
While scorning the dismal predictions, 

The fearless fanatics maintained; 
They joy in his fall, and they curse him, 

While cursing his conquering race, 
To Hades below they consign him 

When burned in the market-place. 

They call him the "Beast" and "Destroyer," 

The "Lawless One" often foretold 
Would resist their millennial Kingdom, 

And Satan's devices uphold; 
"In silence and darkness infernal 

Let Antichrist reign for a space. 
Till the day when the Powers eternal 

Allot him his sulphurous place!" 



The Antichrist Unveiled 

I. 

When Mighty Caesar swayed the rod 
Of empire o'er a world at peace, 
That he might give mankind release 

From Superstition, as a god 

IL 

He bade men worship him alone, 

Both Jew and Gentile, bond and free, 
And in his noble image see 

Immortal Jove's heroic son; 

IIL 

And devotees from every land 

Made pilgrim journeys to his shrine, 
And incense burned to the "Divine," 

And bowed them low beneath his hand. 



Page Forty-Six 



IV. 

Then rose the Messianic Saints, 

A priest-led, fierce, fanatic throng, 
Who wailed in protestations long 

Nor ceased to moan in bootless plaints 

V. 

Until that dark and fateful day — 

The blackest earth has ever known — 
When madness wrecked her loftiest throne 

And threw her noblest life away. 

VI. 
When they at last his form descried 
Calcined to ashes ghostly white 
Upon the funeral-pyre at night. 
Tearless they stood, unterrified: 

VII. 
"Behold the 'Wicked One,' " they said, 
"The 'Man of Sin,' of whom Isaiah, 
Our prophet spake; will not Messiah 
Yet call him back from out the dead, 

VIII. 
"And blasting with His fiery breath. 
To black perdition send his soul 
To suffer while the ages roll 
The doom of everlasting death? 

IX. 

"Behold their King, the 'Little Horn,' 

Whom Holy Daniel saw arise 

Far off adown the centuries — 

Who put three rival kings to scorn! 



Page Forty-Seven 



X. 

"Behold their god, at whose command 
Were temples builded, altars raised; 
Where daily his great name is praised 
Throughout this prostrate, pagan land — 

XL 
"Th' usurping god, whose image set 
Within our loved and Holy Place 
By men of our apostate race — 
Heav'n help us all — is standing yet! 

XII. 

"He is not dead; the ghastly wounds 

That drank his blood are henceforth healed: 
For 'tis ordained that he must yield 
To Christ his empire without bounds ! 

XHL 
"Sev'n years in Hades !— till HE come, 
The Anointed King from out the skies; 
To meet Him Antichrist shall rise 
To his last conflict — and his Doom! 

XIV. 
"The Anointed King — was He not born 
Well nigh a century ago 
In Old Judea? For even so 
Our priests have told us night and morn, 

XV. 

"And proved from ancient prophecy 

That He by wicked hands was slain ; 
That from the grave He rose again 
In the last year of Jubilee. 



Page Forty-Eight 



XVI. 

**Lo, when the next Sabbatic Year 

Shall bring our scattered brethren rest, 
We shall be numbered with "the Blest," 
For Christ from Heav'n shall reappear 

XVII. 

"The Antichrist to overwhelm 

And sink in the Abyss of Hell 
With Satan to forever dwell 
And all the outcasts of his realm; 

XVIII. 
"And Sev'n years later, on His throne 
The Christ shall sit exalted high, 
With all His saints and angels nigh, 
And reign a Thousand Years alone." 

XIX. 

Thus spake the priest-taught Saints of old, 
Exiles and slaves of Israel's race. 
The spawn of that vast populace 

Which through the Sev'n-hilled City rolled. 

XX. 

What tongue can tell, what pen portray 
The anguish of that woeful Year 
Long set for Christ to reappear — 

What lamentation and dismay! 

XXL 

Though patiently they scan the sky. 
With eyes upraised, and hearts elate 
With hope and trust, content to wait — 

To watch and wait till He draw nigh. 



Page Forty-Nine 



XXII. 
No rift within the azure dome, 

No clouds uprolled by angel hands; 

No parting ranks of seraph-bands; 
No voice proclaims: "The Christ is come!" 

XXIII. 

The mornings rise, the noontides burn, 
The evenings deepen into night, 
As one by one they take their flight, 

And one by one the seasons turn. 

XXIV. 

The sad Sabbatic Year is gone — 

Its shattered hopes and streaming tears, 
And famine gaunt, and sickening fears; 

The Saints walk desolate and lone. 

XXV. 

The tide of Time's unceasing flow 

Sweeps onward still, while all around 
Reverberates the hateful sound 

Of Pagan Rites. And altars glow 

XXVI. 

By night and day; and sacrifice 

To him is made who walks the shore 
Of gloomy Styx, and evermore 

Lifts up his blear and baleful eyes 

XXVII. 

To gaze upon that farther strand 

Where phantom forms of heroes flit 
Among the trees, while sages sit 

Along the wave-washed, glistening sand, 
And catch the distant, peaceful hum 
Of spirits in Elysium. 



Page Fifty 



XXVIII. 

Well nigh a century has flown 
Since Divus Julius to his line — 
Whom all the Saints abhorred as "Swine" — 

Left vacant the Imperial Throne. 

XXIX. 

Behold, what changes Time hath wrought 
In that vast, surging populace 
Since thronging Saints in every place 

Wailed loud and long "Christ cometh not!" 

XXX. 

Scarce one remains whose youthful eyes 
Beheld dead Caesar's ebon throne 
And watched the flames that round it shone, 

Or saw his spirit mount the skies.* 

XXXI. 

No mourning Saint remembers still 
When famished multitudes arrayed 
In white apparel watched, and prayed 

That Christ His promise would fulfill. 

XXXII. 

Meanwhile the infant Church has grown 
To lusty manhood. In all lands, 
On every sea, and isle, and shore 
The "Hope of Israel." more and more 

The thoughts of homeless men commands; 

XXXIII. 

And Christian monks revise the tale — 
The simple story of the Christ — 
And adding whatsoe'er they list, 

Their Gospel give to every gale: 

*Apotheosis of Julius Caesar. — Halley's Comet 



Page Fifty 'One 



XXXIV. 

"When will our King to earth return — 
He that was born in Herod's reign, 
And in the Holy City slain 
At the proud Roman's mandate stern? 

XXXV. 

"When will the Lord from heaven come down 
The Pagan realm to overthrow, 
And crush "The Lawless One" below, 
And wear on earth the fadeless crown? 

XXXVI. 

"Oppression, cruelty, and hate 

Pursue His Saints were'er we dwell, 
"Six Hundred Sixty-six (of Hell 
High-Priest-to-be and Potentate). 

XXXVH. 

"Decrees that all the Elect of Heaven 
Shall worship Julius, the Divine 
And incense burn before his shrine, 
Else to the sword or cross be "given; 

XXXVHL 
And none shall buy or sell his wares 
Within this empire, far or nigh. 
Who on his hand or forehead high 
Shall fail to show, in branded scars, 
The letters of that hated name. 
Or Number, which suggests the same: — 
The murmurings of myriad Saints. 

"Be patient; wait," their priests reply; 
"The Lord of Glory from on high 
Will hearken to your just complaints. 



Page Fifty-Two 



XL. 

"Behold, the day is drawing near 

When Antichrist from Hades' gloom — 
The Impious' one — shall rise t'assume 
His trembling throne ^id empire here! 

XLL 
"But know, that for a little space 

The Reigning Tyrant holds him down 
By magic arts to us unknown, 
And guards his doleful Prison-place. 

XUI. 

"When the Enchanter yields to death 

Then shall the "Lawless One' 'arise, 

Whom Our Deliverer from the skies 

Shall blast and burn with flaming breath!" 

XLHL 
Deceived again. Yet Faith revives 

When cruel Nero lifts on high 
The flaming scourge, and far and nigh 

Ten thousand saints yield up their lives. 

XLIV. 
"Behold the tyrant and buffoon !" 

The wily priests cry out amain; 
"He stretches forth his arm in vain 

Upon the Holy City. Soon 

XLV. 
"Jerusalem must fall, 'tis true, 
God's Holy House in ashes lie; 
Yet of her people none shall die. 
He will avenge both them and you! 



Page Fifty 'Three 



XLVI. 
"Hear ye the words our Master spake 
Now nearly two score years ago — 
His prophecies of war and woe — 
To His disciples for our sake: * * * * 

XLVH. 
"Hear ye the Venerable Saint 

Who greeting sends from that lone isle 
Whereon he tarries yet a while, 
Grown white with worship, worn and faint: 

XLVHL 
" ^Seven kings !' he writes, *of swinish race ! 
And five have fallen, one remains; 
And he that comes shall hold the reins 
Of sovereign power a little space; 

XLIX. 

"Then, at his fall. The EIGHTH shall rise, 
To whom the kingdom shall be given — 
The eighth, albeit of the seven. 
Whose power on earth shall soon be riven 
By HIM wht) cometh from the skies !' " 

L. 
The Holy City passed away, 

Her star went down 'mid seas of blood ; 

And where Jehovah's Temple stood 
The Moslem lifts his prayer to-day. 

4e 4( ♦ ♦ ♦ 41 4( 

LI. 

Begone, false Faith, delusive Hope, 

Thou filmy fabric of a dream; 

Nor sunlit sky nor Stygian Stream 
Will e*er their mystic portals ope. 



Page Fifty-Four 



LII. 

The Antichrist has gone the way 

Of all earth's kings and mighty men; 
He ne'er on earth shall reign again. 

But GOD is in His world for aye! 

ADDENDA 
The Antichrist Unveiled. 
Notes, and references to Holy Scripture. 
Number of stanza. 

HI Revelation XIH, 4. 

VI Daniel, VH., 11. 

Vn., Vni Isaiah, XI, 4. 

IX Daniel, VII, S-25. 

XI Daniel XL 

XII Rev. XIII, 3; Dan. VIL, 18, 26-7. 

XIII Rev. XVII, 8. 

XV. The Year of Jubileee referred to was 87 before the Christ- 
ian Era. 

XVI Daniel IX, 24-26; Rev. XIX-XX. 

XVIII Rev. XX, 4. 

XXIV Sabbatic year, ^y Before the Christian Era 

XXXVI. Six Hundred and Sixty-six = DCLXVI, or 

CLA^DIV (S) = CLA VDIVS 
Compare Rev. XIII, 18. 

XXXVIII. & XXXIX. Name, Julius; or IVLIV (s) ; Number, 
VVLII—XLII— 42. 

XL, XLI, XLII 2 Thess. IL 

XLVI MATT. XXIV, etc. 

XLVIII, XLIX Rev. XVII, 7, et seq. 

I. Julius, 
II. Augustus, 

III. Tiberius, 

IV. Caligula, 
V. Claudius, 

VI. Nero, 
VIL Galba. 

XLVIII Seven Kings (Roman Emperors) 

The five fallen, or deceased, are ^Julius, ^Augustus, ^Tiberius, 
*iCaligula, and ^Claudius: ^Nero IS (living), '^Galba cometh, and 
will reign but six months. Then will Julius (the First), rise from 
Hades and reign for a time as the EIGHTH! 



Page Fifty-Five 



Epistle to a MoJernist 

My life-long friend and reverend brother, 
No less esteemed than wife or mother 
For loyalty and ev'ry other 

Sweet Christian grace, 
Your known forbearance let me bother 

A little space: — 

Since you and I our work began 
Long years agone for God and man, 
Each following his chosen plan 

As he was able, 
We've sought some grains of truth to fan 

From chaff and fable. 

From all you've told me it is plain 
Your boyhood's faith you still retain; 
A few old doctrines yet remain 

You once did cherish; 
As for the rest you'd feel no pain 

Should they all perish. 

Likewise with me the years have wrought 
Great changes in my scheme of thought. 
Till now at length I find me brought, 

Through love of truth, 
To a belief, thank God, that's not 

That of our youth. 

We have no use for man-made creeds 
That serve not common human needs, 
That heal no wounded heart that bleeds, 

Nor sweeten life; 
And 'stead of kindling noble deeds, 

Engender strife. 



Page Fifty-Six 



To us the Sacred Revelation, — 
The books of Jewish compilation, 
The annals of the Chosen Nation, — 

Their ancient Laws, — 
Their grand poetic inspiration, — 

Show many flaws. 

The writings of the later ages, — 
Though well ascribed to saints and sages, 
Still have upon their faulty pages 

Some monkish tales. 
Oft told on pious pilgrimages 

Through Orient vales, 

And wheresoever the wily priest 
Found homesick exiles. West or East, 
Imbued with hatred of the "Beast," — 

Their stern oppressor, — 
He thus set forth a Gospel-Feast 

For Faith's professor; 

"Long, long ago the Christ was born," 
(The priesthood taught,) He faced the scorn 
And wrath of foes, and died forlorn 

Upon the tree; 
But rose again on Easter morn, 

From Calvary. 

*Tn Heaven He now abides, but when 
The Antichrist shall once again 
Be freed from Hades' dismal den, — 

His gashes healed, — 
The Christ unto the sons of men 

Will be revealed. 



Page Fifty-Seven 



" That Wicked' He will overthrow, — 
Foredoomed unto eternal woe, — 
That as a Conqueror He may show 

His matchless might. 
Till all the Powers of hell below 

Tremble with fright; 

"And then, behold, the day will come 
When He shall call His faithful home, 
No more to weep, nor longer roam 

In exile drear. 
But reign throughout Millennium, 

Their Savior near." 

The tale they told did truth contain, 
But mixed with coinage of their brain. 
To form a sweet and soothing strain 

To souls aweary 
Of earthly woes; to us 'tis vain. 

Useless and dreary. 

To speak plain truth, in part they lied; 
The coming of the Crucified 
Again has been as oft denied 

By truthful men. 
As reasserted far and wide 

By tongue and pen. 

Men knew too little to deny 
The tale; they listened to the cry 
Proclaiming far, "The Lord is nigh," 

And heavenward turned 
With hopeful heart and tearful eye 

And prayed, and yearned. 



Page Fifty-Eight 



Till even to-day some voice we hear 
Assuring us that He is near; — 
"Ascension robes don without fear; 

His coming's speedy; 
And fetch your offerings, brethren dear; 
His church is needy." 

May God forbid that you or I 
Should hold or teach the hideous lie 
That sets Him forth the enemy 

Of all who fain 
Would to his glorious presence fly 

And there remain. 

O Love divine, the blood and tears 

Of Thy misguided worshipers. 

In ev'ry clime, through all the years, — 

And streaming still, — 
Their blasted hopes and sickening fears 

Thou didst not will, — 

Didst not impart prophetic ken 
To earthborn, sinful, selfish men. 
Or send them forth, by tongue or pen 

To propagate 
Their lurid fantasies, and then 

The tale repeat; 

Didst not in mortal form appear 

In any age or nation here 

To torture men wtih harrowing fear 

Of pains eternal ; 
Rather, to make the way more clear 

To joys supernal. 



Page Fifty-Nine 



In Thee, by mortals little known, 

Thou ever-present Soul alone. 

Who 'round my life Thy care hast thrown, 

Is my delight; 
And shall be till before Thy throne 

I find Thy light! 

My friend, should you be called to stand 
Amid the small and tearful band 
Beside my unfilled house of sand 

Some future day. 
Just take for me each mourner's hand 

And gently say, — 

"He bade me comfort you with this: 
* 'Though oft through life I've done amiss, 
My heart was nigh to God, I wis, — 

His Loving Care, 
His glorious Truth and Righteousness 

I joyed to share. 

*'Twas He that cleansed my inward sight 
And gave me, late, to see the light 
That soon will dissipate the night 

Of error's reign, 
And superstition put to flight, — 

Religion's bane. 

*Sons of the Living God, be true 
To the Ideal Christ in you. 
The Galilean keep in view 

In all His beauty, 
Until the nightfall, and youWe through 

With earthly duty !' " 



Page Sixty 



Faithful unto Deatk 

April 15, 1912 

" Not the least among the heroes of the Titanic disaster were the mem- 
bers of the ship's orchestra, who, it appears, sent their music out over 
the waters to the very last, allaying panic, cheering the people who were 
taken away in the boats and helping their fellow victims with the power 
of sacred music to meet fate bravely. 

Let fame, then, add a laurel for Hartley, Hume, Taylor, Clark, 
Woodward, Brailey, Krins and Breicoux. More than they did men 
could not do." — Boston Post, 

Borne on the fleet wings of Faith and Contrition, 
Cleaving the mists and the gloom of the night. 

Soar the sweet strains of the olden Petition 

To Him who is Lord of both darkness and light ; 

What music so solemn e'er rolled o'er the sea 

As "Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee ?" 

Grouped on the deck of the drowning Titanic, 

Clark, Hume, Woodward, Taylor, Krins, Brailey, Breicoux, 

And Hartley, undaunted 'mid peril and panic. 

Stand wreathing their lutes — it is all they can do — 

While the prayers of the perishing rise from the wave 

To the wailing refrain of the Faithful and Brave I 

The Band never falters, though surges around 
The dark icy flood from the merciless main : 

They're sinking — they know it — yet utter no sound 
Save the *Song Universal', again and again. 

Till swept from their station, no longer to be — 

It is "Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee." 



Page Sixty 'One 



Memories of Old Meekisses ; or Musings of a 
Maekias Man m tke West 

Of Old Mechisses I love to dream 

At eve in my far-off western home; 
Of her wooded hills, and the glint and gleam 

Of her peaceful lakes where I used to roam 
As free as the sea-gulls to and fro — 
Ah me, that was many a year ago ! 

I love to picture the dear old town 

As it straggling lay on either side 
Of the rushing river winding down 

From the "Tunk Mills" bridge to the head of the Tide, 
And thence by the "Sluice" and the "Ship-yards" gray 
To the "Port" and the "fort" overlooking the Bay. 

Though I live to be old I shall never forget 

The hill-side school-house, weather-stained; 

Or the Armory ("Gun-house" they call it yet) 

Where the braves of the village were mustered and trained ; 

The break-neck ledges — Bob Munson's "Chute," — 

And the ramshackle "Block" at the mountain's foot! 

"Aunt RacheFs" horses of gingerbread. 

Displayed to the gaze of us hungry boys 
In her front shop- windows, while overhead 

Swung painted (and less indigestible) toys! 
Next, the "Union Store," and "Foot-bridge" frail 
That threatened to sink 'neath the weekly mail. 

And the Old Academy on the hill 

With its play-ground broad, and towering "Swing;" 
What thronging memories haunt me still 

Of many a summer's evening 
Of lighting, climbing, or tossing the fair 
To the cooler clime of the moonlit air! 



Page Sixty 'Two 



Then the *'Cove" in winter, the glittering "Cove," 
Beyond the meadows and alders brown, 

And the frozen '"Intervale" just above, 

Where we 'cut great ice' till the sun went down; 

And by evening bonfires followed the fun 

Nor deemed it late when the Clock struck One ! 

And the "Gun-house" Hill — our favorite 'Coast* 

When the skating was spoiled by the drifting snow; 

How meteor-Hke we rounded the Post 
At Lowell's Corner — a score or so 

Of dare-devil urchins whooping loud 

From cutter or horse-sled through the crowd — 

Down Post-Office Hill to the opposite ridge, 

Past Old P. "Murphy's Grocery store," 
And over the famed ''Suspension Bridge/' 

Safely upheld by its arches four ! 
Past the Lumber-yard and Flag-staff tall. 
Clear to the Ow'n Smit Market-Stall ! 

Then the Swimming-Nooks when the days grew warm. 
Or ever the ice from the stream had fled — 

How "Up at the Boom" we used to swarm, 
Or down at the Tide-water's rising head; 

While the millpond deep had its group of merry 

(But seldom motionless) Statuary! 

How we leaped off the Piers, how we dived under logs— 
Maybe more than a score lying side by side; 

How we floated supinely, or paddled like dogs 

To the opposite shore where the river was wide, 

Just taking a "sounding" now and then 

Where the depth was but eight feet — nine — or ten ! 



Page Sixty-Three 



Then the "Launching-Days !" How the Autumn sun 
Seemed to laugh outright as he viewed the crowd 

Come stumbling o'er timbers, one by one, 
And the crusty Carpenters bawling loud 

From under the bilge of the shining ship 

All rigged and arrayed for her maiden trip. 

Like a sweet perfume from the Orient seas 

Is wafted the odor of Paint, and Pine, 
And Oak, and Oakum upon the breeze 

From over the trees and the billowing brine: 
No launching-scene do I still recall 
Without both seeing and ''smelling' it all ! 

How fares it to-day with the gallant fleet 

That sprang from the brain of a Cummings or Knight, 
And spurning the strand with their fearless feet 

'Mid our echoing cheers took their plunging flight — 
"Hidalgo," and "Crusoe," and "Centaur," and She — 
The "Victor" of all, and the pride of the sea ! 

Like the hopes of my youth they are shattered and torn ; 

Their bones lie imbedded in coral and sand ; 
Lo, a hulk here and there, all dismantled, forlorn, 

By Ocean discarded, disowned by the land ! 



Page Sixty-Four 



Ode to Old Bowdom 

Air: "La Marseillaise." 

Ye sons of Bowdoin, lift your voices 
To Alma Mater, loud and strong; 
What though she's old she still rejoices 
To hear us pour our choral song, 
To hear us pour our choral song; 
Shall we withhold from our dear mother 

The meed of praise so justly hers, 
Or give our best of voice or verse. 
As recreant children, to another? 

Up-roU the chorus high; 
"Old Bowdoin," be our cry; 
O Alma Mater, hear our song, 

We laud thee to the sky! 

With hearts attuned to love's emotion, 
O reverend mother, kind and true, 

We come, and with sincere devotion, 
Enshrine thy name in honors new. 
Enshrine thy name in honors due; 

For, all we've gained of gold or glory 

From out the world's wide field of strife, 
We owe to thine inspiring Life — 

Our endless theme of song and story; 
Up-roll, etc. 

O Bowdoin, reign a Queen forever. 
The laurel crown upon thy brow; 

Thy glorious empire, be it never 
Upheld by fewer hands than now. 
By fewer loyal hearts than now! 

May sons of men of ev'ry nation 

Exalt thy name and praise thy pow'r 
Till Time hath struck his latest hour 

And stilled the voice of acclamation! 
Up-roll, etc. 

(February, 1912.) 



Page Sixty-Five 



Song — Vvhere Is New England? 

(An Adaptation of the German Poet Arndt's ''Was ist des 
Deutschen Vaterlandf" 

"Where is New England?" they demand 
Who yearn for Freedom's favored land; 
Is't where majestic forests keep 
Their vigils o'er Maine's rivers deep?" 
Ah, yes; but grander yet must be 
New England, home of Liberty! 

"Is that New England where bright rills 
Leap from New Hampshire's granite hills 
To join in fertilizing flow 
Vermont's clear mountain- streams below?" 
Stranger, the Pilgrim Fathers' land 
Must greater be and far more grand! 

"Then tell us, is it not the strand 
Where rude Atlantic rolls his sand 
From Plymouth Rock to where his wave 
Connecticut's fair shores doth lave?" 
Thou hast not found it yet; demand 
Once more New England, Freedom's land! 

"Where, therefore, lies New England? Name 
At last that land of noble fame:" 
Wherever Hows the Pilgrim blood 
That erst Oppression's power withstood; 

There shall it he, there shall it he; 

O stranger, 'tis the land for thee! 

America that land shall be. 
From Lake to Gulf, from Sea to Sea! 
God grant our teeming millions souls 
To fear Thee whilst existence rolls; 

To love with heart and aid with hand 

Our firm-united Fatherland ! 



MAY 22 3912 



